


All I want

by 4vrAFangirl



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Temporary Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-09 23:39:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8918098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4vrAFangirl/pseuds/4vrAFangirl
Summary: Tony went a little overboard with trees for Stark Tower, so the Avengers are tasked with each decorating a Christmas tree to auction for a Charity of their choice, but Clint, still mourning the loss of his friend and handler isn't sure he can part with his anymore.





	

“I really don’t think-“ the archer begins to protest even as Tony is already whipping out his latest Starkphone and typing rapidly- probably a message from Pepper.

“Nonsense,” Tony insists dismissively. “Pepper insists I went overboard with the number of trees in the tower this year. Kills two birds with one stone. It’ll be great. Team-bonding and all that, right? Anyway, think of the homeless orphan puppies.”

Clint sighs, shaking his head and busying himself with filling a coffee mug because others are starting to shuffle in now so he probably shouldn’t drink straight from the pot as he had originally planned. It’s not so much that Clint thinks Tony dislikes or would intentionally mistreat an animal, but the billionaire seems just distracted enough most of the time to forget to take care of himself, let alone anyone else. It seems likely by his estimation that Tony’s probably never owned an animal before, and both engineer and potential pets are probably better for it. Still, his occasional remarks or complaints about Clint’s incredibly expensive golden retriever with a fondness for pizza seems to be half-hearted at best.

‘Arrow’ as he had originally been named, he belonged to some less than savory Mafioso types in Clint’s admittedly pretty shitty old neighborhood. The bastards who’d owned the poor creature beat and threw him into traffic after the canine to the surprise of both his former owners and Clint, turned on his master, biting his arm as he lined up another shot at the archer. The pizza slice Clint had shared with him earlier was hardly deserving of that kind of loyalty, but even after he got ‘Arrow’ to the nearest veterinary hospital and heard what the bill might look like, he couldn’t simply bail on him. It only seemed fitting, tracking and beating down the individuals responsible for the dog’s numerous and grievous injuries, still more so when he used their own ill-gotten gains to foot the expenses. Technically his building didn’t allow pets, but Clint knew of a few tenants that had one, and given that he more or less owned the building now he’d chased off the former landlords once the canine was released he brought the newly re-dubbed ‘Lucky, the Pizza dog’ home with him.

A dog of his size, despite his more subdued temperament-leading Clint to believe that he must be at least a few years old and a proper dog, rather than a puppy- didn’t really have much business being cooped up in his little, cluttered apartment day in and day out, so for the first time in several months Clint starts getting out more. He takes Lucky for walks in the parks where he and Phil went once or twice for coffee and probably talks the poor canine’s ear off about his former handler and friend.

Surprisingly enough, some days it helps. Lucky’s also incredibly useful for those days when his head is pounding or he just wants to shut the world out and take out his hearing aids for awhile, ever watchful and alerting him if there’s something or someone of interest. So the archer probably should have more caveats, but when Stark invites the team to move into the newly remodeled ‘Avenger’s Tower’ together, his only condition had been that he be allowed his furry plus one.

He hadn’t really given much thought about Christmas though if he’s being honest. Clint Barton has never particularly… well, good with the holidays.

* * *

A fellow SHIELD recruit when he’d first joined the organization had once insisted that he must have at least _some_ good holiday memories from his early childhood. Naïve and optimistic words from someone who clearly never had a father who used the time off to consume as much alcohol as possible and wail on the rest of his family, the archer thought, not bothering to correct him. Christmas didn’t mean much in the circus either except that they weren’t likely to see any customers. Life went on, stalls still needed to be mucked out, animals watered and fed, and Clint still had training and practice just the same as any other day. Christmas after joining SHIELD was more or less the same. After so many years not marking the occasion, and without anyone to celebrate the Yuletide with, Clint never felt as though he were missing much, but swapping shifts with other agents clamoring for more time with their families and loved ones, taking the deep cover or reconnaissance missions that would keep him away from the enormous annual tree at Rockefeller Center and all his usual grocery and corner stores playing never-ending loops of holiday tunes and jingles.

It gets a little easier after he manages to talk to the Black Widow into coming in. For the duration of the silent and uncomfortable flight back to HQ after that mission Clint had been sure he was going to be fired. Which was a shame, really, because, after a dozen or so handlers, he was finally starting to like this one. Agent Coulson was… alright. Clint almost feels guilty for giving the man such a hard time their first few missions together, but he’s always been one to test the limits, and it had certainly given the older man the opportunity to prove himself to the archer. Coulson never once talked down to him for being a Carnie that prior to SHIELD employ had never formally finished school. He’d reprimanded the archer when he’d earned it, without ever making it personal the way some of his predecessors had done. And perhaps the biggest and most pleasant surprise was the way he always recognized and praised a job well done. It shouldn’t, Clint thought, but it sort of _did_ something to him somewhere in the vicinity of his belly, hearing Coulson praise him, pathetic as that was. He’d miss that when SHIELD tossed him out on his ass again for his insubordination. He had afterall, entirely failed his objective by refusing to take the shot. But he couldn’t. This woman was a professional, more than aware she was being watched, followed, she’d walked right in front of his line of sight and looked straight up to his perch, to him. She saw him. She had wanted him to take the shot. And Clint, simply couldn’t. There had to be a better way. Clint had been prepared for what would quite probably be the shittiest Christmas yet, tossed back out into the cold and left to fend for himself once more. Given his track history, he really should have expected it, he had for quite some months there, but then Coulson had come along and…

But when he gets back Coulson actually _agrees_ with him, _defends_ him even. Clint is given leave and it’s strongly suggested that he spend a couple days away from HQ while they sort the whole mess out and decide just what to do with their unexpected guest, so he’s not actually there to see or hear anything, but there’s plenty of agents still gossiping about the raised voices from the Director’s office during his handler’s meeting with him when he gets back, and Coulson has taken an unprecedented two days off. Clint wonders briefly if the mountain of paperwork that is piled high on Coulson’s desk the next time he visits his office is some kind of retribution on Fury’s part, but the older man fills out and files each page without complaint, and Clint’s just a little bit in awe.

“It was a good call, Barton,” Coulson offers without looking up from the page he’s reading as the archer settles himself on the couch in his office. “The intel she has provided us with is already being put to good use, and with a little training on how we operate, working as a team, I think she could prove herself to be a formidable asset.”

“An asset,” Clint manages, forgoing his initial plan to snooze for a few minutes in favor of sitting up to stare at the other man in surprise. “You think anyone would trust her on their team?”

“You would,” his handler replies without hesitation, looking up to meet his rather startled gaze. “And I trust your judgment.”

The archer swallows- hard, and only through sheer force of will manages to maintain eye contact with those bright and piercing blue eyes for an appropriate length of time before finally looking away. There’s a blush at the back of his neck that Clint thinks- and hopes like hell- doesn’t actually make it all the way to his cheeks, but Coulson blessedly is already back to his paperwork again.

“Thank you, Sir,” Clint manages finally. The archer swallows down the lump in his throat, which he’s not entirely convinced isn’t his heart trying to jump right out of his chest, internally kicking himself. _Jesus_. He is a grown man, too old and worldly to be falling all over himself, over the other man’s pat on the back. And he is _not_ fucking up the best thing that’s happened to him in years.

“Do you have anywhere to go for the holidays this year,” the older man asks softly after a few more minutes have passed between them.

“You mean besides our trip to Siberia coming up,” the archer smiles, brow raised in confusion at his handler’s spontaneous query.

“Yes,” Coulson nods with an amused quirk at the corner of his mouth. “Besides that.”

“Nope. Why?”

“Just that I know you still live here at headquarters. It’ll be pretty cleared out by then.”

“Yeah,” Clint swallows, nodding. He’d kind of figured as much. He’s not entirely unused to being alone on the holidays, but he’s not particularly looking forward to it this year. “What about you, Sir? Any plans? Family?”

“No family left to speak of,” Coulson replies shaking his head.

“Sorry, Sir,” the archer replies, feeling suddenly small. Really that’s something he ought to know about a man that’s watched his back, even saved it so many times now, isn’t it?

“It’s alright,” Coulson replies patiently in a tone Clint’s learned by now is meant to reassure him he’s being too hard on himself, that allows him to relax a little. “SHIELD is my spouse, and you’re all my children,” he gestures to the passing agents beyond the windows of his office. “Better they give the vacation or days off to an agent with more to go home to than a houseplant or two and half a dozen episodes of ‘Supernanny’ and ‘Dog Cops’ on their DVR,” the older man replies with a hint of amusement in his voice.

Clint fleetingly thinks that the image his handler paints is a little lonely, but perhaps he’s projecting his own feelings about the holidays. He hopes at least with little as it sounds as though Coulson has planned for the holidays, the older man doesn’t mind being out in the middle of nowhere with him while everyone else is celebrating. The idea of being one of Coulson’s children, though, is… deflating. Which isn’t very fair. Clint loves that he has somewhere to belong, a sense of security and that there are people who care about him. People he can trust never to hurt or leave him behind. That’s incredible. It ought to be enough. Wishing for anything more than that- it’s selfish. If the last few months have taught him anything, though, it’s that this little crush of his isn’t going anywhere.

“You watch ‘ _Dog_ _Cops’_?” Clint manages sitting up so quickly he nearly falls off the couch, before quickly correcting himself. “Huh, I would not have pegged you for a reality tv consumer,” he jokes, doing his best not to add this new little tidbit of information to the growing ‘pros’ column he’s been writing in his head about his completely inappropriate infatuation with him.

“Well it’s hardly _real housewives_ ,” Coulson replies, and Clint thinks that maybe, just maybe the older man sounds a little defensive.

“Not a complaint,” Clint offers quickly, shaking his head and raising his hands in mock surrender. “Just nice to know you’re a human like the rest of us, Sir,” he smirks.

“Fooled you then,” his handler replies in his usual deadpan, before lips turning up at the corner of his mouth in amusement and the more pronounced crow’s feet give him away.

“Ha,” Clint laughs. “Yeah, the Life-Model-Decoy project is a smashing success.”

“I thought the latest was speculating I was some sort of alien,” Coulson replies.

“So last week,” the archer replies, waving his hand dismissively. “Have you heard the one about you being Fury’s brother yet?”

“Hard to squash that one. There’s a pretty strong family resemblance there,” Coulson smirks as Clint laughs. “Barton,” the older man says after a moment to recompose himself, a little more serious in a way that cuts short the blonde’s trailing laughter. “Clint, what I wanted to say was- well my door’s open to you if you would prefer not to spend Christmas alone,” Coulson offers, twirling his pen between his fingers, but forcing himself to maintain eye-contact in what appears to be uncharacteristic nervousness, Clint can’t make sense of.

“Spending the day catching up on more paperwork,” he asks. “Just how badly did you piss Fury off, Coulson?”

“My apartment, not my office,” he clarifies, clearing his throat a little.

“Oh,” Clint blurts out, eyes widening a little.

“Nothing fancy,” Coulson adds a bit hastily. “I haven’t bought a turkey or anything. I didn’t know if we’d be back in time and it seemed a waste for just me,” he admits. “But I could probably whip something up.” Clint tentatively adds _can cook_ to the list of things he knows about Coulson, then because he’s not entirely sure how to respond to the unexpected invitation goes with his usual tactic of making a smartass remark.

“Boy, you’re really determined to show up all my other handlers. Pretty sure hosting a home-cooked meal for your assets is going above and beyond.” Coulson laughs, honest-to-god _laughs_ and Clint is pretty sure his stupid heart is going to burst. The prospect of spending the day with him, a day most people want to spend with people they _care_ about? Fuck, it’s terrifying. He’ll have to be on his guard to make sure he doesn’t screw up or let anything slip that will show his hand the whole time. Coulson, probably in something less than his usual suit and tie, relaxed in his apartment, cooking for them, lounging around watching ‘Dog Cops’? It shouldn’t be as appealing of an idea as it is, and that’s reason enough Clint should think twice about it, but well… he’s always been a little reckless with his self-preservation. “Thanks, Coulson,” he nods finally. “I’d like that, but you have to let me bring some beer, or a bottle of wine or something so I don’t feel like a total bum.”

“Deal,” Coulson agrees, nodding with a small smile, dictating his address on a scrap of paper before handing it to Clint.

They come back from Siberia without being much worse for the wear (aside from a little frostbite), and wind up ordering take-out this time while they watch a couple hours of ‘Dog Cops’ on Coulson’s couch, with the older man promising to cook for him ‘next time.’ The archer is pretty sure his heart stops for a moment, then skyrockets at the thought that there might be a ' _next time_.'

“You don’t want me there, Yastreb,” the redhead smiles shaking her head when Nat tells him the following year she will be declining after Coulson has extended her a similar invitation.

“What are you talking about? Of course, I would. _We_ would,” he corrects. Coulson would never have invited her if he didn’t, and everyone knows by now that the three of them make an incredible fucking team, but it’s become something more than that in the year they’ve been working with one another. More like a little family, Clint never expected to find again. “We love you.”

“I know you do. But you’re also _in love_ with _each other_ , “ Natasha corrects with an unimpressed look. “Trust me, you don’t need me there being a third wheel, or you’ll never get it together and finally talk or do something about that unresolved sexual tension between you both.”

“What,” Clint chuckles, looking more than a little startled. “We’re not- He’s not…” the archer stammers, eyes widening in alarm. _Was he that obvious? Did Coulson know?_

“Oh, yes he is,” Nat smirks knowingly. “He’s just afraid to do anything about it.”

“Coulson’s not afraid of anything,” Clint laughs dismissively, though he’s disappointed to hear that his voice doesn’t sound nearly as certain as he’d intended. Nat’s too good to miss it. She raises a skeptical eyebrow.

“Budapest,” she reminds him simply. “Trust me little bird, you scare the hell out of him.”

“Fine, what’s he afraid of then?”

“Probably the same thing you are- that he’ll mess up somehow and lose you completely. Maybe that he’s overstepping some sort of boundaries and taking advantage of you as your superior? You’d have to _ask him_ ,” Nat replies cooly, emphasizing her last two words.

“Supposing I believe you…”

“You’re a smart man,” the redhead nods with a spark of amusement twinkling in her eyes.

“Why do you even care? I thought love was for children?” Nat merely offers him a significant look, and Clint chuckles shaking his head. “Oh, yeah, thanks a lot.”

“You deserve to be happy,” she replies simply, with the barest hint of a fond smile. “So does he. Coulson is a good man. He cares about you. And he’s smart enough to know I’d kill him if he ever hurt you. Not that you would need me to,” she adds. “Besides, I’m not sure I can take another year of you’re making moon eyes at him,” she concludes bumping shoulders with him while playfully pretending to gag. “Call it my Christmas present. Invite me again next year when you’re both through the honeymoon stage,” she calls as she takes her leave.

* * *

“Are you alright, Yastreb,” Natasha asks softly, taking a seat beside the archer who’d been lost in thought and memory, staring unseeingly at the spot where Lucky has fallen asleep at the foot of the couch after Tony’s left to make more plans.

“Not really,” the archer admits softly, shaking his head and swallowing the lump that seems to have formed in his throat. Small thin fingers twine with his and squeeze his hand, then relax but don’t let go as she presses in closer to his side. She doesn’t say she’s sorry, somehow seeming to know that would be the straw that breaks him, simply stands there beside him in quiet company and sympathy. He’s got nearly a full season of ‘Dog Cops’ recorded, untouched. Not touched since… It doesn’t seem right somehow. Too painful, watching them without Phil. Knowing he won’t-

“I can talk to Tony for you if you want,” she offers finally.

“No, I-“ It’s probably better trying to stay busy somehow, the archer thinks. He can’t seem to find the words to say as much, but he thinks after all these years, Natasha probably knows anyway. “He’s right, it’s for a good cause,” he shrugs finally. Clint’s never actually decorated a tree before… Natasha seems to hear the words he can’t actually bring himself to say yet, she’s always been good at that, and at the moment the archer couldn’t be more grateful for it.

The reality of it hits him when Tony pays to shut down an entire Christmas-themed shop for an hour in order to allow the team to do some shopping for their project. Clint has never decorated a tree in his life, and now he’s agreed along with the rest of the team to decorate one of his own to be auctioned off for a charity of his choosing at Stark’s annual Christmas party. There are hundreds of baubles of every shape, size and color, aisles of tinsel and lights, and cans of something that alleges it will give the appearance of snow, others that promise to make your fake tree smell of fresh pine…. It’s incredible, and more than a little intimidating. Just standing in this place surrounded by so many tiny, expensive, and delicate things is making him nervous, and if the look on Bruce’s face is anything to go by Clint’s not the only one, but Tony is having none of it, quickly dragging his fellow scientist away with the promise of some kind of decorations that will be ‘ _just his speed’_.

“ _For Lucky_ ,” Clint reminds himself softly, thinking of the local animal shelter he volunteers at when he can that’s in desperate need of more funds, and forcing himself down one of the nearby aisles to see what he can find.

When all is said and done most of the team has picked some sort of overall theme for their respective trees. Tony’s- to absolutely nobody’s surprise- is himself, and easily the most garish of the lot: trimmed in red and gold with just about every figurine of Iron Man ever made. Bruce’s tree, to Tony’s loud disappointment, is far more subtle. It could, in fact, be just about anyone’s Christmas tree, though Clint appreciates the various soft and deep shades of purple he’s chosen. Steve’s is rather simple too- artistic and symmetrical, though blessedly not done up completely red, white, and blue, with the Captain occasionally remarking at how it had often been too expensive to have a proper tree ‘ _back in the day’_ , but the archer knows better than to think their trees won’t sell as well for their simplicity. Natasha, more likely out of a sense of irony than any particular fondness for her mother country or the Red Room has done hers up with ballerinas. Tony simply shakes his head with a muttered comment about this not making her any less baffling or scary, while she and the archer laugh. Clint’s tree is… well, it looks like a clusterfuck, he thinks staring at it.

“I’m sorry, Bud,” the archer tells Lucky who presses against his leg in a bid for having his headpat and ears scratched, which the man immediately complies with. “I’m not too sure how well this is going to do. Think I might be the only one that will appreciate _this_ tree. Maybe we’ll just go down there and volunteer for the holidays,” he suggests, earning a bark from the dog in approval.

He supposes that he could have made a tree with some kind of meaning or at least appeal to a wider audience, but Clint doesn’t have any delusions of grandeur. He knows he’s not one of the better known or loved members of the team; that the people bidding on the Avenger’s trees will be hoping to acquire Iron Man’s or Captain America’s. Phil would have been beside himself at the mere possibility of having a tree decorated by the latter furnishing his apartment, the archer thinks with a slight smile and shake of his head, even as his heart clenches a little at the thought.

Even Thor’s, ostentatious as it is (probably quite unintentionally), will likely do well decorating the lobby of some hotel or important building or other with the colors and regality of Asgard.

Clint will bid on his own tree, he thinks, give the money to the shelter and keep it for himself, he decides stepping forward to carefully thumb a small flint arrowhead he’d added between his fingers- _New Mexico_. _The beginning of the end_ , he thinks, slowly letting it go to fall back against the branch it rests on.

“I don’t get it,” Tony assesses when he finally sees it. “But hey, whatever floats your Hellicarrier, Legolas,” he shrugs, shaking his head.

Nat takes his hand in her own, before laying her head on his shoulder while she admires it. She gets it. Not that he ever doubted she would. She doesn’t tell him that their former handler would have liked it, or any platitudes that he would be proud of him, or wouldn’t want him to blame himself, that he would have wanted him to move on and be happy, and Clint’s grateful. None of it is anything he hasn’t already thought, doesn’t already know. Clint’s well aware that he’s pretty good at being his own worst enemy sometimes, but this- foolish as it seems- seems as good a way as any to say goodbye. It hadn’t felt right somehow going to the funeral, knowing he was responsible, being under the stares of people who’d been on the carrier when he’d helped Loki to take it and some of their people down. Coulson’s name is on the Wall of Valour at headquarters too, or so he’s been told, but the archer hasn’t been able to bring himself to look at it. So he’s decorated his first Christmas tree instead, decked it out with hundreds of little trinkets, each a symbol for every operation he had ever had with Phil Coulson at his side or in his ear.

“I-“ Clint hesitates staring at the tree, trying hard to swallow the lump that’s forming in his throat. “I’m not sure I can part with it,” the archer admits softly. Which is stupid, isn’t it? Phil’s never seen or touched any part of it, Clint remembers their time together well enough to have put this all together, but this is his- _their_ \- story, and he hadn’t been anything to Coulson, not officially at least so he hadn’t inherited any of his personal effects. Hasn’t been able to bring himself to ask what might have happened to all of them. Pathetic as it might be, this is what he has- _all he has._

“Then I’ll buy it for you,” Nat promises, squeezing his hand softly. Clint lets go of a breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding, and nods.

“Thank you,” he whispers gratefully.

* * *

“Skye,” Simmons hedges softly, looking over the young hacker's shoulder at the laptop screen where she’s furiously typing, scrolling, and switching back and forth between windows. The biochemist is certainly no stranger to technology. Nobody who works in the Science and Research division of SHIELD could claim that, but the way the young woman is with machines is... something else. Her keystrokes, the strokes of a master painter. So light and quick, but fluid, like she’s playing piano- though far better than Jemma ever learned to, but that’s not why she’s here, the scientist thinks forcing herself to focus once more on the task at hand. “Are you sure this is wise?”

“Not at all,” the hacker chirps cheerfully, shaking her head, pausing for just a moment to take another sip from the mug of tea she’s brought her. “But after everything Coulson’s done for all of us, he deserves something more than just another tie or something right, besides I think I’m on to something,” she insists, pulling in her lower lip to worry between her teeth as she concentrates. “You’ve seen how he gets whenever the Avengers are on the news right? See I was a little jealous at first, I thought it might have been nostalgia, or maybe he was wishing he could have his old team of Supers back. You gotta admit it took us a little bit to learn how to get along and work well together,” Skye continues, and Jemma nods. “But then I did some digging. Did you know that he worked with Hawkeye and the Black Widow probably before the Avengers initiative was even a gleam in Fury’s eye? Nearly 10 years, Jem.”

“Strike Team Delta,” Jemma nods as Skye brings up a corresponding SHIELD file on her screen. “Everybody knew about them. Well, everyone in SHIELD, anyway,” she amends upon seeing the slightly deflated look on the hacker’s face that this wasn’t exactly new news to the other woman.

“Well, _I_ think,” Skye continues, clicking a few times and turning her screen to face the scientist as she looks up from over it with a raised eyebrow, daring her to challenge her findings. “There might have been a little more to that story,” the hacker smiles, clicking through a number of photos, some obviously candid, taken either from a distant vantage point and those that were obviously posed or selfies taken from hacking Coulson’s own personal devices.

“Where did you get these from?”

“I could tell you,” Skye replies with a smile. “But then if he would find out somehow you’d have to lie about it,” the hacker points out with a knowing look.

“Right, forget I asked,” Jemma nods.

“You see it, though, right,” Skye continues, gesturing once more to the screen filled with photos.

“You think they were… involved,” Jemma asks, eyes widening.

“Maybe? I mean, Coulson is pretty tight-lipped about his past or anything personal, and we know he cares about the people on his team, but… I’ve never seen him like this before, have you” she asks, blowing up a picture of their fearless leader smiling, mid-laugh, standing beside a grinning Hawkeye, before turning the screen to face Jemma once more. “I don’t know if it was romantic,” the hacker admits a bit reluctantly. “But whatever they were, it seems like they were at least a lot more to one another than just coworkers. Everyone thought Coulson died. Do they even know he’s alive?”

“Of course they do,” Jemma replies immediately. _But_ she thinks looking at the photo of their smiling leader once more, Skye’s right they do seem close. _If they know why haven’t they reached out to him at all?_ “Well, maybe not. But there must be a good reason for that,” the scientist offers, certainty wavering a little in the face of the younger woman’s disbelieving look.

“Maybe he just needs a push,” Skye continues, shifting the laptop to press a few keys before turning it back to face Jemma again.

“An auction?”

“For Christmas trees decorated by the Avengers. Hawkeye isn’t as well known or popular as some of the other Avengers. I could hack it, but that seems a bit amoral with the proceeds going to charities they all care about. It’s just patience, strategy and timing. I’m good at this sort of thing,” Skye continues. “If we could convince the others to go in together on it, I bet we could make a winning bid.”

“Alright, I’m in,” Jemma nods, smiling. “So is Fitz, leave it to me.”

“Great, so that leaves Ward and May,” Skye says, closing her laptop, frowning a little. “That’ll be fun…”

* * *

“Ha, no,” Grant laughs shaking his head when she approaches him with the idea.

“Oh, come on,” Skye pouts. “Please,” she tries again, purposefully making a show of batting her eyes at him.

“Why the hell would he want a Christmas tree anyway?”

“He’s sentimental,” she points out, “and they worked together for more than ten years.”

“I worked with Garrett for nearly twelve. We don’t buy or make each other Christmas presents,” Ward replies dismissively.

“Yeah, well we’ve already established you’re the life of the party,” Skye teases, shaking her head. “Look if we don’t win then you get it back and you haven’t actually lost anything, but the more we can pool together the better our chances. We need you. Please?”

Ward sighs, shaking his head once more, and Skye does her best, but can’t help but to smile a little. She’s won. “Fine,” the agent huffs, “on one condition.”

“Yes?”

“You and Simmons wear a comm when you try to talk May into this mess. I want to be a fly on the wall for that conversation.”

“You’ve got yourself a deal. Any tips?”

“Oh, no way. Sink or swim, rookie.”

“Thanks, you’re a real pal,” Skye replies dryly with a roll of her eyes.

“No problem,” Ward smirks, before returning to his punching bag.

* * *

“Uh… Okay,” Skye repeats, feeling more than a little unbalanced. Simmons for her part is equally slack-jawed against the doorframe beside her. This is nothing like the sort of arguments and debate they practiced for.

“Okay,” May repeats with a nod, not looking away from the skyline in front of her as she flies the Bus.

“Really? That simple? No protests or lectures about protocol, levels of clearance, all that fun SHIELD stuff,” Skye asks surprised.

“A gift from the whole team is a good idea. He certainly won’t be expecting it,” May replies in a simple matter-of-fact tone. “He’ll appreciate it. Besides he’s got plenty of ties and Captain America memorabilia already,” she continues to the two stunned women, an even more disarming and surprising smile playing across her face. “And I know Ward’s listening, and this will drive him up a wall,” she smirks conspiratorially, as the man in question curses in Skye’s ear. “Thanks for my Christmas present, girls, very thoughtful of you both.”

“I’m not entirely sure what just happened,” Skye admits as they leave the cockpit.

“Me either,” Jemma agrees. “But you can’t argue with the results.”

“Right. Let’s go buy A.C. a Christmas tree,” the hacker nods with a smile.

* * *

“Clint-“ The archer stares, mouth gaping, eyes wide in disbelief, a sudden urge to throw up that has nothing to do with his modest alcohol consumption over the course of Stark Industry’s holiday party.

“No. That’s not possible,” he manages around a throat that feels suddenly as though it’s trying to swell shut. “You said-“

“I know,” Nat replies nodding. Clint can’t look at her, can’t see the apology in her eyes or on her face. He can scarcely stand hearing it in her voice. Some part of him, some part of them both should have known better than to make any kind of promises to each other about the damned thing. Maybe if he’d just- tried to prepare himself for this moment from the onset… But the bid had come in at the _absolute_ last second. A fucking _penny_ more than the previous and Natasha’s last bids. Now some stranger who won’t have the first idea of its significance is going to come make off with his tree, while he’s expected to pretend to be thrilled. Yup, he’s definitely going to be sick.

* * *

“I don’t understand,” Simmons pouts, shaking her head. “We lost? But we outbid that other user we were fighting for it.”

“I know,” Skye frowns bitterly. “Someone else outbid us all just as it was closing.”

“Who?”

* * *

He's still too busy practicing what he wants to say, pacing nervously in front of the large windows of the tower that overlook the city below, to notice when the man who placed the winning bid arrives. "Listen, I know it's not really how this is done, but I was hoping I could talk you out of taking the tree. Refund and make it up to you somehow," the archer tries, shaking his head again. No, that's still not quite right, is it?

“I don’t know, I rather had my heart set on it. Make it up to me, how?”

Clint freezes. And not simply because he hadn’t expected anyone to bear witness to his anxiety attack. He _knows_ that voice. Too well. He’s missed that voice, more than Clint has ever missed anything in his life. Which is how he knows he’s finally lost it. The stress of it all, his grief has finally got to him. Because it simply isn’t possible that he could actually be hearing Coulson. _Phil,_ he thinks, chest aching.

“Not real,” Clint whispers shaking his head and closing his eyes as he sinks down to the floor, letting his forehead come to rest against the cool glass pane in front of him. “Not real.”

“He is Clint,” another voice- Natasha’s- chimes in softly, and the archer’s eyes shoot open. It could still all be a hallucination of some sort, he supposes, but he’s never imagined Nat before. Nat has always been his stabilizing force since they told him Coulson was gone. She’s always been there to pull him back from the edge, sat up late nights with him after he woke up shouting and seeing everything in shades of blue. “Fury lied to us, Yastreb,” she tells him gently, kneeling beside him. “They brought him back.” Clint suspects that it’s probably a longer, far more complicated story than that, but for the moment while part of him is screaming at him to demand details, he can’t seem to form the words, to make his mouth work, can’t seem to do anything but stare now he’s finally looking at him.

“I’m so sorry,” the dead man says softly, blue eyes shimmering with emotion. “Clint-“ he begins, but the archer doesn’t give him the opportunity to finish, hurling himself to his feet once more and propelling himself forward, crashing into him. He no longer cares if it’s all some sort of dream or trick. For the moment he’s willing to call it a Christmas miracle, and he’s not about to let it go without a fight, without taking advantage and enjoying every moment of it while it lasts. He feels warm, solid in a way that makes Clint laugh, then abruptly dissolve into tears against his chest. He even _smells_ like Phil, he thinks. Not that he’s ever really forgotten.

“I miss you so much,” Clint whispers breathlessly into a now quite tear-stained tie with subtle Captain America shields stitched into it.

“I _missed_ so much,” he replies gently, as the archer shudders against him when his arms wrap around him. “By the time I was finally up and about again, so much time had passed. I thought maybe you’d be better off just moving on-” the other man stammers, inarticulate in a way that Phil rarely was, but also in a way Clint’s never imagined before that makes him cautiously lift his head to meet the other’s gaze. “But I missed you too,” he admits softly, offering a quick smile to Natasha who nods, ducking out of the room to give them both some space.

“It’s a beautiful tree,” the other man observes softly after a moment of silence passes between them.

“It’s us. Our missions,” Clint whispers, and Coulson nods fondly.

“I recognized it,” he admits. “Fury said I shouldn’t- but I saw it and I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t stay away anymore.”

“Good,” Clint whispers fiercely, clutching him tighter, probably to the point of being just this side of painful, but Coulson doesn’t say a word. The archer was pretty fond of the tree before all of this. _Now?_ He _fucking_ loves the thing. Or at least that it somehow brought Phil back to him. Every branch and every single weird and tacky or ugly decoration. He's keeping it forever. He's keeping _Phil_ for even longer, he thinks.

* * *

“Is that,” Jemma asks, stopping dead in the middle of the common area, pointing at the tree in the corner.

“It certainly looks like it,” Skye nods, eyes widening, pulling up the thumbnail on her phone.

“But how-“ the scientist begins baffled.

“Hi,” a voice from behind the pair greets warmly. “You must be Simmons and Skye, right? I’m Clint,” the archer says with a grin as the two stupefied women turn around to face him, eyes impossibly wide.

"Oh. My God," Skye whispers.

“Wow, your arms are incredible. You are even more handsome in person,” Jemma blurts out, then suddenly squeaks turning pink. “Aaaaand I said that out loud, didn’t I? Oh god,” she mutters, burying her face in her hands even as the blonde chuckles softly.

“Not to look a gift-horse in the mouth or anything,” Skye manages when she finally finds her ability to speak again. “But we lost the auction,” the hacker points out.

“Yes, you did,” Coulson interrupts over his cup of coffee approaching the group, handing a second, much larger cup to the archer who sighs appreciatively, fondling the cup for a moment and enjoying the warmth of the ceramic spreading through his hands, before taking a large sip. “To me,” he admits with a small smile. “I did appreciate the sentiment, though,” he continues, coming to stand beside Clint where the archer is leaned up against the bar counter. “It was a very nice thought. I’m almost afraid to ask how exactly you got May and Ward to go along with it. Impressed, but afraid,” the older man smiles, shaking his head. “In the future, though, a tie or a new coffee mug would have been just fine.”

“Well, Sir, there was one other thing-“ Jemma hedges, still a bit pink in the cheeks, pointing up above where he stands to a small sprig of mistletoe. “It was Skye’s idea,” the scientist adds hastily as Coulson looks up to see what she’s pointing to, earning a disapproving glare from her cohort.

“Best Christmas ever,” Clint beams, setting down his mug and stealing Coulson’s to set aside on the bar before grabbing him forcibly by the tie and tugging him in for an enthusiastic kiss.

“Yes,” Skye cheers, thrusting a victorious fist into the air. “C’mon, we gotta find Fitz and Ward, they owe us $50,” she reminds the other woman, tugging her away by the sleeve of her sweater.

“Merry Christmas AC,” Skye calls happily, not waiting for a response.

“Merry Christmas, Clint,” Phil exhales a bit breathlessly when the pair of them finally pull away a little.

“Merry Christmas, Phil,” Clint smiles back. Maybe Christmas and trees and all of that aren't so bad afterall, the archer thinks, picking up his mug and waiting for the other man to retrieve his before steering him back towards his quarters.


End file.
